The Room Above

The apartment was perfect, which should have been my first warning. Top floor of a converted Victorian, rent suspiciously low, and the landlord — a kind-eyed woman named Mrs. Abernathy — pressed the keys into my hand like she was relieved to be rid of them. "You're the top floor," she said, as if I'd asked. I hadn't. The first night, I learned what she meant by the look on her face. It started around midnight: footsteps. Slow, deliberate pacing, directly overhead — from the corner by the kitchen to the window, pause, then back again. Then a long dragging sound, like furniture being pulled an inch at a time. I knocked on Mrs. Abernathy's door the next morning. She went pale. "Dear," she said carefully, "there's nothing above you. You're the top floor. The roof sits right over your ceiling." I believed her. That's the worst part — I believed her, and the footsteps came back that night anyway. For a week I told myself it was pipes, settling, the building breathing. Old houses make noises. Everyone says that, usually right before the noises learn your name. Because here's what I noticed on the eighth night: the pacing matched mine. I pace when I'm on the phone — kitchen corner to window, pause, back again. It's a habit I've had for years. And up there, in the dark above my ceiling, something was walking my exact route. When I stopped, it stopped. When I crossed to the sink, the dragging sound crossed too, like furniture only I would move. So I tested it. At 1 a.m. I stood in the middle of the room, phone to ear, saying nothing, moving nothing. Above me: silence. Total, held-breath silence. Then — slowly, deliberately — the dragging sound. One long pull, from my kitchen corner toward the window. As if it were showing me it knew the way. I pressed my ear to the ceiling. The footsteps stopped, directly above my head. And then, from the other side of the plaster, exactly where my ear was resting — three slow knocks. Knock. Knock. Knock. I moved out the next morning. Mrs. Abernathy didn't ask why. She just took the keys back with that same relieved look, like she'd been expecting me all along. If you live on the top floor — put your ear to your ceiling tonight. Count the steps. Then tell me: do they match yours? Sleep tight. And whatever you do, don't knock back. This story is: FICTION.